A bloody tradition continues

MADRID – Every day for the past two weeks, the Plaza de Toros in Madrid has been bustling.

The end of May marks the Festival of San Isidro, in which for 14 days, two-hour bullfights take place each night for the entertainment of tourists and locals alike.
On Sunday, I decided to partake and watched the final night of the festival with a few friends.

Plaza de Toros, on Madrid’s east side, is the third-largest bullfighting arena in the world and is the largest public outdoor venue in Madrid, seating 25,000 people.

When I arrived at 7 p.m., after a few Spanish beers and some tapas, of course, the sun was still high in the sky and beating down at an ungodly temperature. The arena was surprisingly full – I’d heard that the spectacle (not at all a sport, according to the Spaniards) was dying out. Lots of old men and visitors to the Spanish capital like myself sat fanning themselves and eating (and spitting out) sunflower seeds.

And suddenly, without any fanfare, the first bull was prodded and ran confusedly into the ring. Meanwhile, the real show was taking place at the opposite end of the circle, where a man on horseback – decked out in the full traditional costume of riding boots, breeches and a velvet sports coat – strutted out into the ring brandishing a giant, colorful spear.

A few minutes later, the spear was thrust into the shoulders of the bull. This “tradition” was repeated almost dispassionately two or three more times, and by then, a deep purple color emerged on the bull’s skin.

Finally, the bullfighter scurried out carrying what looked like little more than a yellow and pink sheet. He tried to taunt the bull into action by throwing the same sheet back and forth in front of his face a few times. The bull was about as uninterested as the crowd and decided instead to pursue the horseman and prod the stallion with its horns a few times.

Instead of the tango I had imagined between the bull and bullfighter, the horseman waited until the bull was sufficiently exhausted and had dropped to the sandy ground before piercing a long, silver-colored sword into its brain, twisting it for effect. The bull, dead by this time, was then paraded around by horses that dragged it out of the arena.

This process was repeated five times.

Many people have called for an end to these events because of their gruesomeness.
I’m not trying to disrespect a time-honored tradition or praise a bloody spectacle – this was simply what occurred on the last night of San Isidro in Madrid.

The whole affair was fairly sanitized. I was never scared or grossed out, and this is
coming from someone who fainted at the sight of his own blood.

However, I think the whole event has turned into nothing more than a tourist attraction, and the real essence of the bullfight – the bravado, the passion, the machismo of the cultural event – has been lost.

That is the real tragedy of the modern bullfight.